


Everything and More

by Fight_Surrender



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Baz makes a sandwich, Carry On Quarantine, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow, Fluffy Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow, M/M, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Simon slices a tomato, SnowBaz, Snowbaz banter, That bitch Carole Baskin, Tiger King Reference, and they were quarantined, heartstopper - Freeform, it's very exciting, pure fluff, vague literary refrerences, zero plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23651014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fight_Surrender/pseuds/Fight_Surrender
Summary: “You’re cute,” Simon grins, poking me in the ribs.I give him my most withering glare, “I am not cute, Simon Snow, I’m a dread creature of the night.”A day in the life of Simon and Baz sharing a flat during the 2020 Pandemic.Pure domestic fluff. Zero plot.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 45
Kudos: 312
Collections: Carry On Collection - Quarantine Edition





	Everything and More

**Author's Note:**

> I'm super excited to share this for the Carry On Quarantine, put on by the lovely and talented Xivz. My prompt was "books."
> 
> Many thanks to Artescapri for the beta read and coming to the rescue with the perfect title for this fic. (Apparently it's a book by David Foster Wallace.) I have "Infinite Jest", but made it to about page 11 two years ago and haven't gotten any further. I read "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" because I felt like it was an Important Thing to accomplish and I tend to lean towards Simon's evaluation. Heartstopper is a wonderful graphic novel/webcomic series by Alice Oseman, if you are unfamiliar with it, check it out. You won't regret it. 
> 
> Thanks also to Aralias for British slang help and to Bazzybelle for a joke in this fic that I don't want to spoil yet (see end notes).

**Baz** :

This virus is bollocks.

I mean, I try to keep things in perspective. I’m grateful that everyone I love is safe and well. There are definitely worse things than being trapped in a flat with the love of my life. There are so many people who aren’t this lucky. If I go down that rabbit hole, I start to feel guilty that I have it this good. That I don’t deserve this. I sense the beginnings of a shame spiral so I shut it down. Simon insisted that I start therapy a year ago, I’m starting to see the benefits. (I’m never telling him that.) (Fuck therapy.) (Not really)

It’s just that I miss the little things. Going round to the pub. Idle chatter with the barista who never puts enough whipped cream in my coffee. (There can never be enough whipped cream in my coffee.) Table service with hot food, not anonymously delivered lukewarm dishes in styrofoam boxes. Not having to summon my courage and gown up like a surgeon to run to the market.

Merlin. Is this what world peace looks like? Everyone huddled together in their home? Such as it is? Hard to believe we’re all in this together. Everyone in the whole wide world. Except maybe Antarctica. Bet those research station fuckers are safe. This whole situation is making me mental. 

I take a breath. Let it out slowly. Focus on the positive, Basilton: you get to face a world changing global pandemic with Simon Snow.

Thank Merlin, Penny kicked Simon out of the flat when all this quarantine business started. Penny is an introvert at heart. She saw the writing on the wall, and at the mention of total lockdown, she realized that she couldn’t handle 24-7 of Snow’s nervous energy. Particularly if he’s cooped up. She definitely did not want to deal with us together in her flat, full time. “Finals are coming up and the last thing I need is a repeat of the great drunken blowie incident of Christmas 2019.” Penny grumbled, “I can’t unsee that shit. Thanks for ruining pumpkin spice whipped cream for me forever.” Crowley, that was a nightmare. How were we supposed to know she wasn’t staying over at her parents for the holiday?

Hm, I wonder if I have any whipped cream in the refrigerator?

Anyway, this has proven to be just the kick in the arse we needed to move back in together. Two years living apart is enough. We’ve each worked hard. On ourselves. On us. We talk about our _feelings_. It’s awful. I hate it. But it’s also good. Maybe even great.

We’re living in Fiona’s flat. She’s still in Prague. Shacked up with Nicodemus of all people. He went “vegan” and managed to win her back. She buys him pig’s blood and he helps her hunt down vampires. The whole situation is a Chuck Palahniuk level mind fuck.

Our flat (I get such a thrill when I get to use “our” in relation to anything involving me and Simon) has a balcony. Snow spends a lot of time out there; he’s practically created a homeless encampment. It’s crammed with shelves of random junk, potted plants and—inexplicably—a large bean bag he dragged over from Penny’s. I spelled it waterproof for him. (Snow’s magic is starting to come back.) (In small fits and spurts.) (He still can’t manage a basic weatherization spell though.)

He found out about his magic a few weeks ago when he accidentally called his sword while shouting about how my dull knives can’t properly slice a tomato. Then, he was so excited, he hacked through the tomato, _and_ the cutting board, _and_ half the kitchen island. (Fiona’s going to be _pissed_ off.)

I open the balcony door to check on Snow. He tends to fall asleep out there, curled up on his bean bag. I like to startle him awake because he looks delicious when he’s befuddled and sleepy. “Alright there, Snow?” I ask. (He’s awake, no startled sleepy kisses for me right now.)

I narrow my eyes at him. “What’s that?”

Snow looks down at his hands, “A—book?”

I walk over and squeeze in next to him. “All this time together, and I don’t think I’ve seen you read more than a carry out menu.” I take the book from him, it’s a paperback with two blokes laying next to each other, holding hands on the cover. One looks like he’s in rugby kit, the other in an orange flannel shirt. “Heartstopper? What the hell are you reading, Snow?”

“Don’t you dare affront the magic that is Heartstopper, you vile little man.” Simon grins, snaking one arm around my neck and stealing back his book with the other. “This is my emotional support comic series.”

“How do I not know this about you?” I hook a leg over his and snuggle closer, settling into the crackles and pops of the beanbag.

“Fuck if I know,” Snow grins, “Maybe if you took your nose out of heartbreaking works of staggering genius, you could develop a more keen understanding of me and my literary proclivities.” He attempts to cock his eyebrow at me, which basically amounts to him tilting his head away and closing one eye. He looks ridiculous and adorable.

“Leave Dave Eggers’ masterpiece out of this, you menace.”

Simon has the audacity to roll his eyes at me. “I tried to read that bloated piece of rubbish one time in the toilet. You left it in there and I was bored.” He shivers, “It was fucking dreadful, I almost lost my will to live.”

“I one hundered percent do not want to hear about what you do in the lav, Simon.”

“Ah yes, forgot about your delicate sensitivities, love.” He levels his eyes at me. “Do you need a hug?”

“Oh, shut up,” I say, flicking his ear, “Now tell me about this comic.”

Snow tilts his head toward me conspiratorially, “So there’s Nick, the inflammably handsome and utterly badass sporty lad who thought he was straight but isn’t. Then there’s Charlie, the openly gay sensitive boy genius, and they fall in love.”

“So it’s about us, then?”

Simon grins and colors just a bit, “Sort of, but they were never enemies. They went straight from best friends to lovers. It’s lovely, really.”

I flip through the pages. “Sounds cute.”

“You’re cute,” Simon grins, poking me in the ribs.

I give him my most withering glare, “I am not _cute,_ Simon Snow, I’m a dread creature of the night.”

“You too are cute,” Snow straddles me and digs his fingers into my ribs, “So fucking cute.”

“Don’t you dare tickle me, you cretin,” He’s already tickling me.

“Cutest fucking posh vampire in London,” Snow gasps while I snorty laugh. We’ve evolved into a tangled laughing mess. I know the neighbors in the next balcony are watching. I’d flip them off, if I knew I wouldn’t have to be looking at their sorry faces every day for who knows how long.

Fuck it, it’s the apocalypse. I won’t flip them off, but at least I’ll give them a show. I kiss Simon long and deep before pulling back. We’re both out of breath and a bit sweaty. (Actually, I do flip them off, but I hide it behind Simon so they can’t see.) (It’s a moral victory.) “You hungry?” I ask.

“You buying?”

“Oh yeah,” I stand up and hold my hand out to him, “The best grilled cheese money can buy.” I say. He takes my hand and pulls himself up.

“Perfect,” Simon smiles, “Does that go best with wine or beer?”

“Both.” I quip. “Not like we’ve got anything better to do.”

“Sounds like we’ve got our evening cut out for us then.” Snow heads into the kitchen. “Bagsy the remote. We’re totally watching another Tiger King.”

“Merlin,” I sigh, “I may need more than beer and wine to get through another episode of that train wreck.”

“That bitch Carole Baskin,” Simon shouts, (in a dreadful approximation of an American accent) his head buried in the fridge, “Totally fed her husband to the tigers.”

“Probably” I say, buttering a slice of bread, “Everyone on that show is a fucking lunatic.”

“Ten quid says Joe Exotic is a chaos demon, like literally.”

“I’m not taking that bet,” I sneer, “They are all probably creatures of some horrible sort. That guy with the obese tigers, the harem, and the PhD in mysticism or whatnot? Probably a Jinn.”

“Maybe,” Simon sits at the counter with his beer. “America is hell on earth, good thing we made it out.”

I hold my beer out to Snow, “Here’s to England and her lack of insane, queer, polygamist, redneck tiger demons.”

“Cheers to that,” Simon says, tapping his bottle to my glass. (He drinks his beer straight from the bottle like an animal.)

We decide to forsake the American shitshow documentary for a quiet night on the couch. I’m curled up at one end reading, Simon sits at the other end, flicking through his phone.

“Crowley Baz, that book is huge. Are your arms tired from holding it?”

“Vampire strength. Remember?” I quip.

Snow crawls to my end of the sofa and inserts himself between me and the seatback cushions, pushing me perilously close to the edge. When we get our own place, we’re buying the largest, softest sofa they make.

Snow slides partially on top of me, notching his leg between mine. “Great snakes, this thing is a monster,” Simon picks the book up and thumbs through it. “This font is microscopic.” He sneers at me, “Are you reading this for _fun_?” His lips are quirked in horror.

“ _Infinite Jest_ is one of the most important literary works of the twentieth century. I’ve been meaning to read it forever.” I slip my hand under the hem of his shirt and scratch absently at his back. “No better time like the present, with the lockdown and all.” I kiss his neck, right by his Adam’s apple. I give it a lick. (Because I’m weak.) “It’s reputed to be erudite and vertiginously imaginative.”

“Sounds infinitely boring,” Simon says, settling on top of me, grinding his hips into mine just so.

I shift slightly and raise my mouth to his ear. I drop my voice to a menace, “Blasphemy, you savage. David Foster Wallace is the most talented writer of his generation.” I pause, letting my warm breath linger. Simon shivers slightly, but he’s also failing miserably at suppressing a huge grin. “A writer.” I pause again. Bite his earlobe. “Of virtuosic talents.”

“Baby,” Simon takes my face in his hands, looking deep into my eyes. He’s biting his lip in an effort to keep a straight face. “I fucking love it when you talk banal academic minutia.” Then he has the audacity to growl at me and envelop me in a very messy kiss. His hands are in my hair and his tongue in my mouth, but he’s pausing between kisses to laugh.

I’m laughing too as he unbuttons my shirt.(He’s always unbuttoning my shirt lately.) (I haven’t been able to get waxed in weeks and my chest hair is—abundant.) (I hate it.) (Simon loves it.) “Shall I talk about last year’s Pulitzer prize nominees?”

“Yes, Baz, yes.” He’s mouthing at my neck while unzipping my flies. “The more pretentious the better.”

“You’re such a berk, I love you.”

Simon pauses licking just below my pectorals and smirks up at me. “You’re a tedious nerd. I love you too. Now take off your pants.”

I do.

**Author's Note:**

> Full credit to @Bazzybelle for the chest hair joke. She headcanoned it the other day and I had to steal it, because frankly, I can't get the thought of a wax-deprived Baz with abundant chest hair out of my head and I had to work it into this fic.


End file.
